


White Bone

by elephant_eyelash



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Future Fic, Past Abortion, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephant_eyelash/pseuds/elephant_eyelash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I literally have no idea what to write as a summary. The tags are really much better at summarising this than I am.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Bone

They walked until their bones grew withered and old, and no desire was left within them. Soon he fancied they had forgotten each others’ names. But their names still clung themselves between them, keeping the warmth away from her eyes and skin.

And still, the boy followed. Draped in stolen furs, eyes squinting against the snow. In the stories they would sometimes forget his name. Bastards had no name. But she had many— the Ghost of the North, No-Name, Nymeria. Tying loosely between them was the visage, the name, the echo of Arya Stark.

Now and again he caught sight of her face and saw it shift and change. The cold snatched words away from him then, always. Her eyes were crisp and clear, needle-sharp. He understood what she wanted and saw to it with a dull acceptance.

One day he caught sight of himself and realised he had become old. Grey hair brushed against black and his joints seemed to freeze. But there was still strength in him as he pressed his hands against the neck of another, felt the snap of bone and the gurgling of blood. And she would look on, finish it when she had the strength to, but she was so small now.

Soon he had to carry her on his back, felt the pulse of her body against him and the snow become heavier. Her fitful nightmares continued. He would coo to her like a baby (and with it, the ghosts of those children of theirs’ that had bled out onto the snow with bitter tansy root in their blood swam in front of his eyes).

Then death came to her and her dusty bones. And his fingers burned as he scratched out her grave in the cold earth. In the tree bark he carved a face so the Old Gods would watch over her, somehow. In the veil of snow it almost looked white.

She had described them to him once. Told him how they used to seem to glow in the night, white and smooth as bone.

He followed her route, followed the names that seemed to twist and take root into the landscape. He would search for whispers and traces, finish it all. Arya Stark, The Ghost of the North, No-Name…

The sun broke over the tops of the trees, pure white. Gendry- that was his name. He remembered it, somehow.


End file.
